


it is walking toward me without hurrying

by orphan_account



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, technically necrophilia I guess???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2097519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sips' death is not so much an ending as a journey.  ~A Sjips Fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	it is walking toward me without hurrying

**Author's Note:**

> In an alternate universe, Sips and Sjin stayed together and launched their space program. In a tragic mistake, Sips’ rocket crashes. His body is never recovered. Sjin returns to Minecraftia, alone.

“I’m sorry,” Xephos says to you, and it’s like the final nail in the coffin. Sips’ coffin. Of course, there is no body. In all likelihood, he’s still out there, floating. Floating forever. Maybe he’d have liked that, you think. But you know you’re just deluding yourself.

Xephos pities you; it’s obvious. He takes the time to help you build your new farm far away from old memories. Lalna and Honeydew don’t seem to mind, either. They speak in hushed tones around you, and never ever mention Sips.

And for a time, it’s golden fields and chilis. You spend early pastel mornings standing on the porch, watching the drops of dew slowly evaporate from the grass. Afternoons in the dirt, feeling the cool grains run through your fingers. And the evenings? You wait until Xephos has fallen asleep, and then you finally collapse on the double bed, telling yourself it’s Sips on the other side.

You almost believe it.

But eventually the guilt in Xephos’ eyes wears at you, and you send him away.

And then it’s just you and the water and the sun and the dirt.

~

At first it feels strange to talk. You’re paranoid, waiting for Xephos or somebody to leap out of the fields and condemn you – tell you you’re crazy. (Or worse, to look at you with those sad guilty eyes and try to apologize again even though it’s no one’s fault – and there’s no reason, no bigger plot. Just one simple mistake.) But soon enough, it becomes natural. Just silly little comments. You’re filling your biofuel generator with chilis, and you say faintly, “Hey, Sips, remember Guy?”

There’s no response, of course. You’re all alone. But you keep talking – you’ve given up trying to understand why. “I wonder what happened to that old chucklehead. And his buddy, Aloysius.”

You can feel his laugh like it’s tickling the hairs on your arms.

“I can almost imagine you’re here, Sips,” you say, voice gaining energy and volume. “How’s that for denial, eh?”

~

It’s therapeutic in a way you don’t want to examine too closely. You’re laying out in the open field, pointing out the clouds. “Hey, that one looks like Honeydew, doesn’t it? Wearing his helmet. See the spikes there?” And in your head you imagine Sips say: “Jeez, Sjin, didn’t know you memorized his face. What, are you mooning over pig guy?”

Out loud you say: “Sipsy, you know better than to think I’m mooning over anyone but you.”

Cold air snakes across your ear. You shiver, sitting up abruptly. Your eyes dart around the empty field, half expecting a skeleton archer to be waiting for you.

Nothing.

“Nevermind,” you mutter, and you go back to your work.

~

You’re forgetting his voice. When you imagine him responding to you, the words retain the flavor of his speech: dingalings and mothertruckers and shiiiits. But Sips’ accent, so unique to him, begins to slip through your fingers like grains of rice.

And you panic. You collapse to the floor in your room (the other half of the bed empty even of Xephos) and sob, high-pitched, keening noises escaping from your lips in a rising wail.

You don’t remember the rest of the day.

When you wake up, the moon is high in the sky as you stumble out the front door of your farmhouse. You stare up at it – the brilliant white light in the sky – Sips’ grave. “SIPS!” you yell up at the moon. The moon doesn’t answer.

Something else does.

“Ya big babby,” Sips’ voice echoes loud and clear over the strawberry field. “What’re you crying about?”

Your frantic eyes search out his shape. Nothing.

“Sjin?”

You reach up to touch your face. The tears have not yet dried.

“Just like that one movie – you remember that one movie Sjin? The one with Patrick Swayze? And he was a dairy farmer?”

There’s a lump in your throat, heavy. It’s Sips’ voice. But this isn’t like your comforting inventions, not in your head. It’s coming from outside. You really are insane.

“…And the best part, Sjin, the cow just freaking explodes! Right up in the air! Aw man, I’d give an arm and a leg to see that someday, eh, Sjin?”

You flee, running into the farmhouse and slamming the double doors shut.

~

He follows you everywhere now, talking incessantly. You’d have given anything to hear his voice one last time, but now all you want is for it to stop. Every time he says your name you feel a part of you tearing, rending, ripped apart by opposing forces. You want to follow him, go to that beyond place and hear that voice forever.

When Xephos finally pays you a visit, it’s a relief. He comes by early one morning, impeccably put together as usual. (You think about your own unkempt beard and stained overalls with some chagrin.) He’s kind, but less timid than before. He’s moving on, and he believes you are too.

You have to stop yourself from jumping when Sips’ voice appears in your ear: “Jeez, silk shirt guy, stick up your ass as usual.” But overall you trick Xephos into thinking that you’re well. When he goes away again, you have a mixed feeling of pride and embarrassment.

You convinced him you’re sane, you think. But you’ve convinced yourself that you’re utterly mad.

Sips’ voice had been clear: no ethereal whispers from the beyond, no delicate half-remembered murmurs. His voice was loud, flat, and just as alive as Xephos’.

If your eyes were shut, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

~

In the beginning, he had kept up with his old lego talk, rambling on about this or that movie and complaining about your lack of work ethic. If you’d been able to bring yourself to respond, it would have been exactly like old times.

But it’s getting even worse. Sips is talking directly to you, asking about you.

You’re picking the raspberry bushes when you hear his voice from directly behind you. “Sjin, what’s the matter?”

 _You_ , you think nastily. You bite your tongue.

“You big dingaling, you can’t ignore me forever. C’mon, just say something!”

You tune him out. You’ve had plenty of practice by now.

~

You can feel his breath pass over your face as you lie awake one night. “Please Sjin,” he whispers. “Please don’t ignore me. Please?”

You want to cry, but your heart seizes up like stone. No Sips – not even ghost Sips – would beg you, ever. You know him. Better than your subconscious does, it seems.

“Sjin, am I . . . am I dead?”

You roll away from his quiet voice and firmly think of nothing at all.

~

When you smell his scent on the pillow next to you that morning, you forget. Stretching languorously in the bed, you mumble, “Mmph, what time is it, Sips?” And you’re not surprised when you get an answer back. “I’d say eight o’clock S-Sjin?!”

And that’s when you jerk awake, eyes wide and panic-striken, searching the room.

Nothing. Sips is dead. You know that.

“Sjin?” the voice asks, hesitant now.

Your breath hitches.

“Sjin?” Sips’ voice says.

“I miss you so much I can hardly breathe sometimes,” you whisper, voice choked with unshed tears. “you have been my best friend for so long, Sips. What am I supposed to do without you? And now? Hearing your voice – I can’t –”

You swallow shakily.

Silence. And once again you realize: you’re mad, completely insane. There’s no Sips. It’s all your imagination.

When you hear his voice the relief breaks over you like an ocean wave. “I’m here, Sjin. I don’t know how, but I’m here.”

You’re crying before he finishes talking. You’re not sure if you’re crying from relief or fear, but Sips’ voice is gentle now as he tries to comfort you. And that’s something, you suppose.

~

You give in. If this is insanity, well, you’ll take it. It’s better than the alternative. Sips is lively, happy. He also doesn’t remember anything before that first night, when you cried out in rage at the moon.

You’re not sure if this makes it more or less likely that he is a figment of your imagination, but it’s a relief all the same. Though you made quite the fool of yourself these past few weeks, if he’d seen you with Xephos you would have felt . . . guilty. You don’t care to examine that.

He doesn’t talk all the time. Sometimes he doesn’t say anything for hours at a stretch, and you begin to fear that he’s moved on or perhaps never existed in the first place. But you don’t question him. Even a ghost needs his privacy, you suppose.

In bed that night, you face toward Sips’ side of the bed with a small smile. Even if you can’t see him, maybe he is lying there facing you.

“I-I guess I am dead, huh, Sjin?”

Your smile disappears, and you avert your eyes.

“Sjin?” he says again. “Sjin, are you there?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, surprised by his insistence. “Yeah, Sips, I’m right here.”

Sips gives a light sigh of relief, and you can feel it ghosting across your forehead.

“Sometimes you can’t hear me,” Sips says, and the hesitance in his voice says it all.

~

You wake up the next morning to the feel of cold lips against your own. Scrambling for the bedcovers, you sit up abruptly, hand to your mouth.

“Sorry,” Sips mutters grudgingly.

There’s a blush lighting your skin ablaze. “N-no, I’m – that, that is I’m sorry, Sipsy.” It’s with surprise that you remember, this is the first time you’ve called him by his nickname since he died. Your blush feeds off this thought, spreading to your ears as well as your cheeks.

Silence falls over the both of you. You take a shaky breath and move as if to sit up, but the familiar weight of Sips’ palm against your chest stops you.

“Say that again.” His voice is gruff.

“S- I’m sorry?”

“No.”

“S-Sipsy?”

Without warning, his lips are on yours again, and you can feel his tongue, smooth, pressing against your upper lip. Your eyes drop closed and a groan escapes you, and in response you feel Sips’ firm hand on your thigh. Oh God. This is – is moving so fast but it’s wonderful, and perfect, and with your eyes shut, it’s everything you’ve ever wanted.

His mouth moves away from your own, trailing kisses along the expanse of your cheek. His name flows out of you in a hiss. You can hear his smug chuckle and instead of getting angry you feel inexplicably relieved. This is Sips, all right.

Sips who’s pushing you down gently against the soft mattress, his hands tracing exploratory patterns across every inch of you within reach. Sips’ teeth nibbling your ear gently. Sips who’s pressing his leg in between your thighs, spreading you open to him.

You’re shaky with anticipation by the time he begins to unbutton your shirt. He goes slowly, tracing his fingertips along each stretch of skin revealed. He pets your curly chest hair down, then combs his fingers through it. Tickles your belly button. Delicately strokes your hipbones, his thumbs tracing along the elastic of your boxers. You let loose a groan of restless anticipation, and you can feel the smirk on his face as he abruptly tugs your boxers down.

You spring free, and reflexively you open your eyes as the cool morning air hits your cock.

_What the fuck._

You don’t know what you were expecting – Sips, as before, or the invisible companion you’ve already become used to – but it was definitely _not this_. Hovering above you, eyes focused intensely on your member, mouth curled in a satisfied grin, is Sips: light gray, faintly shimmering, and transparent.

A yelp leaps from your lips before you can stop it, and Sips’ head shoots up, his eyes focused immediately on yours. The concern causes his brows to furrow. “Sjin, what-”

“You’re there!” you accuse, voice tinged with desperation and confusion.

“Well, yeah, Sjin, what the fuck did you think? Have you ever had a wet dream this hardcore?” Sips asks, his old humor seeping into his tones.

“No, I – I mean I can, I can see you, Sips!”

Sips raises his eyebrows, which you know is a look of shock on his usually expressionless face. He lifts his hands to his face, examining them closely, before meeting your eyes once again. “I don’t see anything different, but, uh, sure, Sjin?”

“How do you see yourself?”

“Uh, just like normal, I guess? Why?”

“You look, uh, ghostly to me.”

“Oh,” Sips says, his face falling slightly. “Like, gross and shit?”

“N-no! Just, ah, just transparent. And gray. Entirely gray.”

“Oh,” Sips says again, thoughtful this time. “So, uh, you still gonna fuck me?”

“Sips!” you scold, smacking his chest lightly. A shit-eating grin lights his face and he begins to laugh, full-hearted as he always is. You can’t help but chuckle back, and you lean your head back against your pillow. No matter what he looks like, it’s still Sips.

It’s his hands that reach once again for your cock, stroking you until you’re wordless and breathless, barely managing to moan out his name. You feel his fingers move, pressing curiously against your ass. Without words, you sit up.

Sips leans back immediately, apology already on his lips, but you wave him off, leaning over to your bedside table. You pull open the drawer and retrieve some lube, tossing it over to Sips without meeting his eyes.

A smile lights Sips’ face. “What the hell do you have this for, Sjin?”

You flop backwards and grin at the ceiling. “I use it to keep my mustache nice and lubed up. The chicks love a lubed up mustache, Sips, I’ll have you know.”

“Ah, yeah, speaking of which, you could really use a trim, you fuppin’ jabroni.” He reaches up and strokes your hair, tugging on the tips. You shake your head lightly, and he lets go, focusing his attention on the bottle of lube. You close your eyes and wait.

The press of his fingers against you is scary but fulfilling at once. You gasp as he fills and stretches you slowly, adding a finger at a time. Finally, you can feel his lips tickling your ear as he whispers: “Ready Sjin?”

“Always, you mothertrucker,” you murmur back.

When Sips pushes into you, the movement is uncharacteristically gentle. His thrusts are like the waves of wind through the barley in the early evening, each successive wave more long-reaching than the last. The building pressure is quickly becoming unbearable.

You fall apart, and you can feel his panting breaths echo in your ears. You think you can hear something else to, through the wave of overwhelming pleasure. You think you hear Sips’ voice moan: “I love you,” before he, too, arches his back, iridescent in the sun’s morning rays, and comes.

After the haze of pleasure has faded into the warm afterglow, Sips curls up around you, his arms fitting securely around your waist. You stroke his arm gently, watching the delicate hairs bend as your fingers meet them.

“Do ghosts sleep, Sipsy?” you murmur sleepily.

There’s a momentary pause before he replies. “Nah,” he mumbles. “They, uh, they do cuddle though.”

“Ah.” You squirm lightly in his grip. “So I guess we’re duty bound to cuddle. I mean, if ghosts really have to.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s in the rulebook. Rule numero uno: ghosts always cuddle.”

“Is that right?”

“Mmhmm.” The answer is little more than a contented sigh.

You close your eyes. This might be insanity. This may be nothing more than your desperate grieved invention.

But it doesn’t matter. This is Sips, and this is you, and you’re together. And really, that’s the way it’s supposed to be.


End file.
